Pitch and Roll
Curufin, Maglor, and motion sickness.
For a four-words Instadrabbling prompt of "pale, sick, hope, ship".
The steep, narrow stairs creak softly as Maglor descends below decks, passing between rows of bunks to a darkened corner. Curufin is exactly where Maglor left him: lying on his side with Maglor's cloak folded under his head, boots discarded on the floor.
"Fuck off," Curufin says without opening his eyes.
"No," says Maglor, and sits on the edge of the bunk.
Maglor had hoped to find Curufin more alert, but he's still pale in the lamp-light, his face damp with sweat; he's been sick and miserable since they'd sailed out of the harbour into the dark, angry sea. The ships had all begun to pitch and roll with the waves and swells, and Maglor had gone to - and stayed at - Curufin's side, holding his hair back every time he leaned over the deck rail.
"Feeling any better?" Maglor asks, and holds out a waterskin.
"Clearly not," says Curufin, but takes it. He sits up just enough to drink slowly, one small sip at a time, until he stops with a quiet, disgusted sound and hands the waterskin back to Maglor. The ship tilts to one side before righting itself, and Curufin exhales a careful breath.
Before Curufin can lie down again, Maglor shakes out his cloak and sets it aside with the waterskin. He removes his boots and climbs into Curufin's bunk, settling in with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him. "Come here," he says, and waits to hear fuck off a second time.
"I'm not a child," Curufin says, instead.
"I know. Come here," Maglor repeats, but Curufin does not immediately relent. It takes a long moment before he rubs a hand over his face and moves to lie with his head in Maglor's lap. "Sleep, if you can," Maglor says, laying a hand on Curufin's shoulder, "and please don't throw up on me."
Curufin makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh. "I make no promises," he says, then closes his eyes as the ship rocks gently back and forth.